The Road Not Taken
by LauraHuntORI
Summary: West Point's Class of 1949 was filled with former serviceman, each with his own story. You've seen the film about Cadet Gilman, now read the story of his roommate Cadet Thomas.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **_A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step._

**Disclaimer: **This story is a work of fanfiction, based on characters and situations not owned by me. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

* * *

Leon Edward Thomas dodged the huge mud puddle before the tent housing the Command Post, and hustled inside to find, as expected, both Captain Marks and Colonel Howe.

"Sir, Sergeant Thomas reports to the Battalion Commander as ordered." The boy capped his statement with a salute that began with the long slender, fingers of his right hand moving sharply up into position, then holding for the regulation brief moment before melting gracefully back down to his side.

Colonel Howe regarded the freckled youth with a pleasure he strove to conceal for the moment under a brusque tone of voice and unsmiling lips.

"At ease, Thomas." The older man waited while the boy widened his stance and clasped his long hands behind his back in the formal 'at ease' posture, then continued, "Sergeant, tell me why your name is not on my promotions list. I specifically told Captain Marks I wanted to see it there, you know."

The boy shot a glance at his captain. Marks looked blandly back. The captain had indeed offered him a promotion, but the next highest rank was—'"I appreciate that, sir," he said, looking back at the colonel. "It was kind of you to think of me, but as I explained to the captain, I'm not qualified for a _commission_, sir."

He was an NCO. A sergeant. An enlisted man in his bones. How could he become… _one of those? _

Howe, not privy to the sergeant's thoughts, responded to his words. "Not qualified?" The colonel frowned. "What do you mean by that?" The boy had already been commanding his platoon for months anyway, so what made him think taking a commission would be so different?

"I don't have the education, for one thing." He thought of the final fight of his academic career, the one that had convinced him to give up. He'd won the fight, but lost what Helen had called the War of Little Short-Britches. '_You might fight good,' his bleeding opponent had spat, 'but a field-hand don't need no education.' _Thomas hated quitters, was sorry he'd been one, but… he rubbed the knuckles he'd busted in Billy's face that long-ago day. _There was only so much a body could take._

"Education, is it?" Howe snorted. "We can fix that. How would you like to go to West Point?"

"West Point!?" The mortar shell that had exploded at his feet a month before had delivered less of a shock. "Colonel, with all due respect, there's a war going on! I can't just –"

"You wouldn't be leaving _today_, Sergeant. The next class doesn't start until June. Plenty of time for you to win the war between now and then." Despite his best efforts, a smile had crept into the commander's tone and onto his face, and behind him Captain Marks was openly grinning, but the little Texan saw none of it, because his eyes had drifted shyly down to the dirt floor of the tent.

A frown rumpled the freckled brow. "Even so, sir—" _He couldn't do it. It was impossible. West Point!? _The cold, disemboweling hand of fear gripped his innards as if he were heading into battle. And yet… the colonel himself was a graduate of West Point. Wouldn't it be fine? It _would_, of course, it would. In fact, he would give _anything_ to be able to— but he wasn't able, that was the problem. Unconsciously, he shook his head.

"Quite a few men who have shown special qualifications are being picked out of line outfits," Colonel Howe explained encouragingly. "I talked it over at regimental, and we think you ought to be one of them."

"You'll never find a better break than this," Captain Marks assured him, by way of seconding the commander's offer.

Thomas looked from one of them to the other, and they could see he was both pleased and flattered by the idea. Then his face fell. "Sir, it's true I've decided to stay in the army, but—even more than a commission—I'm just not qualified for it, sir." West Point was a college, and a tough one at that. Shame lowered the already soft voice. "I didn't even finish _grade school_." Long lashes curled almost to the flushed cheeks as his gaze again sought the ground.

Silence filled the tent, uncomfortable on the part of the non-commissioned officer, amused on the part of the two with commissions. The boy was a born soldier, a natural leader. All he needed to learn was to believe in himself.

"Afraid, huh?" Colonel Howe suggested, not ungently.

"No, I—"

"No?" Scorn of that obvious lie was heavy in the Colonel's voice.

Thomas sighed. _You'll never be anything but a cotton-pickin' cotton picker! That's all any of you Thomases is good for. _"Yes, sir. I am. I am afraid. I dropped out of school in the _fifth_ grade, do you realize that? How in this world could I get into West Point? What could I do there if I did?" The boy's eyes, a kaleidoscopic hazel in which green predominated, bored into the calm brown orbs of his superior officer.

"You've taken a lot of courses since you've been in the army. The Academy will accept those as the equivalent of a high school diploma, provided you pass the entrance exam," the colonel held up a hand to forestall any more objections on the Sergeant's part, "and we can coach you for that. The test is five months away. Believe me, you can do it!"

Thomas exhaled heavily. He _wanted _to believe the colonel. He wanted to believe him very much. Maybe it wasn't impossible. Maybe he _could _do it.

"In fact, sergeant, I feel quite certain you could do anything," the colonel finished quietly. "Anything you set your mind to. So see that you set your mind to it." He bent to pick a lieutenant's rank insignia from the desk. "After we move through the Colmar area, we'll get things rolling. In the meantime, you'll _take_ a commission."

"Sir, what about—"

"You won't have to transfer. What with the replacement shortage, the rule's been waived." The colonel pinned the insignia to Thomas' uniform. "You're now a gentleman by Act of Congress. Take a bath, shave—" He was only inches from the newly minted lieutenant's heavily freckled cheek. No shave would be needed. "Well, anyway, take a bath and get back into the lines. We've got a war to win, Lieutenant." He offered his hand, to seal the deal.

Lieutenant Thomas shook it in worried acceptance. "Thank you, sir."

"Congratulations," Captain Marks shook with him as well.

"Thank you, Captain. I hope I don't—" Thinking better of what he'd been about to say, Thomas opted merely to repeat, "Thank you, sir."

Marks smiled. "You're welcome, Lieutenant, and don't forget to breathe. Just keep breathing, and everything with be alright."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **_In order to attain the impossible, one must attempt the absurd._ – Miguel de Cervantes

**Disclaimer: **This story is a work of fanfiction, based on characters and situations not owned by me. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

* * *

He was a fool.

A _stupid_ fool.

A stupid, _uneducated _fool.

Thomas shook his head. He had no time for this anyway, he needed to—he started to get up, sighing in frustration, dropping the book on the desk.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't do this, Colonel, I have to—"

"Dammit, Lieutenant! I don't want to hear any more about what you can't do! I wouldn't be sitting here now, if you hadn't followed our patrol to the quarry and eliminated that machine gun!"

"Sir, lobbing grenades at a machine gun nest isn't exactly the same as—"

"Yes, it is! It is _exactly _the same! Don't you see? Christ, Lieutenant! Your file says you have 20/10 vision, so open those baby blues and look!"

"My eyes aren't blue, sir."

Colonel Howe planted a hand on his hip. "_Lieutenant, _are you _sassing _me?"

_Oh, crap! And watch out for mines! _"No, sir! I was merely seeking to advise the colonel that—"

"I don't give a rat's rear end what color your eyes are, Lieutenant! I want you to study these books until they are RED! Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Then get to it, Lieutenant."

Obeying, as he must, Lt_._ Thomas returned to his studies.

* * *

Leon Thomas surfaced from oblivion to livid panic. _The lamp is still burning! Not again!_ Guilt and dread tormented a mind still only half-awake. _After all my promises! I didn't mean to fall asleep._ _I just wanted to read a few more pages—_

He shuddered. He'd been too tired to stay awake, of course, and now he'd get his hide tanned again for sure. _Why hadn't he blown out the lantern? Did he think they had coal oil to waste? He was lucky he hadn't burned the place down. _He ran shaky fingers through his short hair. The book he'd dozed off over had drool on it. Terrific. He was so hopeless. The disappointment he felt in himself caused him actual pain. When would he learn?

He wiped off the open page with the edge of his hand. _Wait, this was no novel, it was–_

It was Colonel Howe's copy of the Bugle Notes.

West Point.

What a nightmare.

Leon rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with his fists. At least he wouldn't be getting a tanning.

* * *

If this all worked out as Colonel Howe hoped, one day Lieutenant Thomas would be able to say that he owed all his advantages in life to being shot in the tail.

He shifted a little. He was lying on his belly on a field hospital cot, propping himself up on his forearms so he could read the Armed Services Edition of The Science Yearbook of 1943.

His bottom hurt worse than every tanning he'd ever gotten in his life all rolled into one. The doc said they'd gotten out all the gangrene. Thank God for that and for penicillin, though he'd sure hated all those shots. He was lucky, the doc said. If he'd gotten this wound the year before, they wouldn't have had enough penicillin for the agonizing marathon of alternating shots and surgery that had resulted in a nine inch trench across the top of his right buttock.

Thomas chuckled silently. He had lost half a buttock like the people in Candide, another book he'd read to try to help him prepare for a college career at West Point. And, in this best of all possible worlds, he now had time to devote to his studies, which had been difficult to impossible in the front lines.

He sure wished he could sit down, though.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **_Fear is the energy to do your best in a new situation. The feeling of fear (anxiety, nervousness, shyness, or any of its other aliases) is really "preparation energy". It's getting you ready to excel, to succeed, to do your best and to learn the most._– Peter McWilliams

**Disclaimer: **This story is a work of fanfiction, based on characters and situations not owned by me. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

* * *

The officer's ward of the 7th General Hospital had transformed itself into a kind of pseudo-Beast Barracks in which half a dozen former Firsties focused their attention on only a single injured aspiring cadet.

"What is the significance of the Cadet Colors?" Captain Jonas, West Point Graduate, Class of 1934, currently recovering from a gunshot wound to the right shoulder, asked crisply.

Lt. Thomas' eyelashes swept down for a moment while he thought back to what he'd read, then returned to the upright position as he replied, just as crisply, "The components of gun powder are charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur, which are black, gray, and gold in color."

The follow-up question came immediately, but from 1st Lt. Anderson, West Point Graduate, Class of 1941, lying two cots away with a shrapnel wound in his left leg. "And what is the chemical name of saltpeter?"

"Potassium nitrate."

More chemistry questions, physics, electronics (his former life as a radio salesman and repairman stood him in good stead), history, and tactics.

Correct answers brought no praise. Incorrect ones were greeted with the exclamation, "WRONG!" and a brief lecture on the question at hand, which he was then required to repeat.

Some of the questions were sensible, others were not, but many of the answers were contained in the 'cadet bible' Col. Howe had lent him, so memorization was clearly the key to this endeavor.

"How many lights in Cullum Hall?"

"Three hundred forty."

The answer was once again correct, but it may as well have been wrong from the sharpness of the succeeding rebuke: "Is that the way you stand at attention? Suck in that gut, new cadet Thomas."

New Cadet Thomas, lying prone on his cot, laughed.

"Is something funny, Mister?" 2nd Lt. Lee, West Point Graduate, Class of 1943, was practically spitting his anger and disapproval. When Lee was yelling at a new cadet, the man should NOT laugh in response.

_He had to be joking. _"How can I suck in my belly when I'm lying on it?" Thomas wondered in amusement, addressing his pillow as much as his fellow officer.

"You'll suck it in when I tell you to suck it in!"

The nurse on duty considered telling the officers to calm down, but decided against it. Little Lt. Thomas seemed in no real distress, and 'tutoring' him, as they called it, had turned out to be more or less a God-send in taking the officers' minds off their troubles… at least the ones who'd attended the United States Military Academy at West Point.

Major Annandale, West Point Graduate, Class of 1937, under cover of his fellow alumnus' shouting about their pledge's lack of seriousness, whispered, "You're not playing the game, Lieutenant. Play the game."

"The game?" Thomas whispered back to the older man.

"That's all it is after all. Say what I say, do what I do, know what I know. Like Simon Says, from back in grade school."

Thomas' mind flashed on scenes from his school days that had not been a game. _You don't belong in school, you belong in the fields._

The aggression with which he'd met that long ago challenge made him grumble, "It's stupid." It _had _been. He'd been there to learn like anyone else, no matter how long or short his britches were. At least they'd been clean.

Lee, realizing his superior officer had been speaking, fell silent, allowing Major Annandale's reposte to be heard by the whole ward.

"If you think it's stupid, then quit," Annandale advised him, coldly.

Thomas thought about apologizing, but what could he say? _I was thinking about something else, while you were speaking to me? Sure, that'd go over real well. _

Unbidden, a response straight out of the Bugle Notes' Soldier's Creed rose into Thomas' mind, and fell from his lips in a voice the Texan scarcely recognized himself.

"I will never quit," he said solemnly, knowing, perhaps for the first time, that it was true. "I will never accept defeat."

"Good," Annandale said, while the others, even Lt. Lee, smiled their satisfaction.


End file.
